


Five Times John Took Care of Sherlock--and One Time Sherlock Returned the Favour

by jdrush



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Holmes Family, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 08:17:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11331945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdrush/pseuds/jdrush
Summary: Title says it all.





	Five Times John Took Care of Sherlock--and One Time Sherlock Returned the Favour

TITLE: Five Times John Took Care of Sherlock--and One Time Sherlock Returned the Favour  
AUTHOR: J. D. Rush  
FANDOM: Sherlock BBC1  
PAIRING: Sherlock/John (the one and only)  
RATING: PG-13 for boy kissing and one very bad word.  
SUMMARY: Title says it all.  
DISCLAIMER: Characters still belong to Sir A. C. Doyle and BBC1  
A/N: I’m dong a Five Times Fic. *wheeeeeee* (I apologize for the length of #5. . .it kind of got away from me.) No betas were harmed in the making of this fic.

 

1) Sherlock had been on the case hours, days, weeks. . .it was hard to tell anymore. One moment just kept bleeding into the next, and the next, and the one after that. The clues were all there--he just had to piece them together. Something out of his grasp. He’d see it, eventually. He always did. He just needed some time, another night, maybe two. Then he could sleep.

His body, however, had other ideas.

John came home around nine o’clock in a good mood. He had spent an enjoyable evening with Sarah and some of their colleagues from the clinic. A nice dinner, a couple of pints at the pub, exciting match on the telly. All in all, a very pleasant night.

“Sherlock, I’m. . .” the rest of the sentence died on his lips as he noticed his flatmate, hunched awkwardly over his computer at the small sitting room table that doubled as Sherlock’s desk. He took two quick steps towards the younger man, worry twisting at his gut, before he heard the unmistakable snuffling even breaths that signaled sleep and not an injury.

John just shook his head in exasperation. “Stubborn git,” he muttered fondly under his breath. He hated waking up Sherlock--the man never got enough sleep, as far as John was concerned--but only God knew how long his flatmate had been in that position, and if he stayed in it for much longer, he’d have a serious crick in his neck come morning. 

A gentle shake of Sherlock’s shoulder brought him to semi-consciousness. “Hmmm?“ he mumbled, his brain still not engaged.

“C’mon, you,” John said, a smile in his voice, as he pulled the unresisting man out of the chair and guided him to the sofa. “You’ll nap better here.”

“Don‘t have time for a nap,” Sherlock protested, already snuggling into the soft leather cushions.

John resisted pointing out that he had already been taking one. “Make time,” he replied instead.

“But the killer. . .”

“Probably knows the benefit of sleep.”

“John. . .”

“Just an hour,” John bargained, draping a blanket over his drowsy friend. “You’ll feel better. I’ll wake you.”

“Promise?”

“Of course. One hour.” The words were barely spoken when John heard familiar soft breathing as Sherlock fell back to sleep. Tucking the corner of the blanket tighter around Sherlock’s shoulder, John smirked. “Perhaps two.”

 

2) Sherlock had been on the case hours, days, weeks. . .it was hard to tell anymore. One moment just kept bleeding into the next, and the next, and the one after that. The clues were all there--he just had to piece them together. Something out of his grasp. He’d see it, eventually. He always did. He just needed some time, another night, maybe two. Then he could eat.

His body, however, had other ideas.

“What was that noise?” Molly asked, from the other side of Bart’s lab.

“Nothing,” Sherlock muttered, barely refraining from punching himself in the stomach to stop the annoying sound.

“It sounded like. . .”

“I said, nothing,” Sherlock repeated, louder and more insistent before turning his attention back to his microscope.

“Hardly nothing,” a new voice piped up, as John slid a sandwich onto the table in front of him, cut into four small triangles. “It’s only from the cafeteria, but it should be edible. How badly can they muck up chicken salad, right?”

“John, I’m busy here. . .” Sherlock huffed, even as he eyed the sandwich hungrily. 

“It’s been nearly 36 hours since you’ve last eaten,” John argued.

“I’ve gone longer.”

“It’s not an endurance test, Sherlock. It’s lunch.”

“I don’t have time for lunch.” 

“Nibble it in between slides,” came John’s infuriately sensible reply. 

“I don’t need. . .”

“Yes, you do. Now, eat.” Leaning close, so only Sherlock could hear, he whispered, “Finish it all, and I’ll talk to Molly about letting you have those spare lymph nodes when she’s done with them.”

As Sherlock tucked into his sandwich, John smiled triumphantly. Sometimes a little bribery wasn’t a bad thing.

 

3) Sherlock had been on the case hours, days, weeks. . .no, it just felt that way to all the other officers at the crime scene. They were used to Sherlock being impossible to work with, but he was taking it to a whole new level that night. Obnoxious to the point of unbearable, insulting to the point of abusive, darting from one spot to another with no rhyme or reason, raving and grumbling as he paced around the perimeter. 

At the rate he was going, he would soon be joining the bloodied victim he was studying so intently. And any one of the Yard’s best could be the culprit. 

It was easy to see even Lestrade was losing his patience with the brilliant detective, so John did what he did best. . .jumped into the fray and saved Sherlock from himself.

During a break between rants over the incompetence of police in general--and Scotland Yard in particular--John calmly grasped Sherlock’s elbow and took him aside. “Too much, Sherlock,” he said, gently. “You’re not helping. And if you continue being so stroppy, Lestrade will kick you out personally.”

“I’d be fine if they would only shut up and LET ME THINK!” the last words spoken loud enough for the whole of London to hear.

John refused to rise to the bait. “Talk to me,” he said, evenly. “You’ve said before that helps sometimes.”

Sherlock snorted in annoyance. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“When has that ever stopped you before?” 

“It’s just. . .why can’t I see it, John?” Sherlock said, his voice tight with frustration. “The clues are all there. I just have to piece them together. But there’s something. . .something out of my grasp. I just need more time. I just. . .”

“You’ll see it eventually,“ John soothed. “You always do.” Gesturing at a small café down the street, he added, “Come on. I’ll buy you a coffee.”

“You’re just trying to get me away from here,” Sherlock said, shrewdly.

“For a few minutes. I think we all need a break.” A soft, guileless smile graced his face. “We’ll buy some for the boys, too. Get back on their good side.”

A pause, then a reluctant, “Okay, but only one cup.” 

“One cup? For all the lads?” John quipped. “That’s rather stingy, don’t you think?”

Sherlock chuckled weakly at the lame joke, easing the tension surrounding them. “Wanker.”

“Sweet talker,” John shot back, looping his arm Sherlock’s and leading him away. As he passed by Lestrade, they shared a conspiratorial grin, and the DI sent up silent ‘thank you’ to whatever deity was responsible for bringing John Watson into their lives.

 

4) Sherlock had been on the case hours. . .then something went wrong.

“Ouch!”

“If you think I’m doing a bad job,” John gritted out between clenched teeth, “you can just piss off to the A & E.”

“This is what passes for bedside manner these days?” Sherlock asked drolly, watching apprehensively as John readied the needle for the next stitch.

“Five minutes, Sherlock. You heard Lestrade. They were right around the corner. But you couldn’t wait.”

“And if I had, Sullivan would have got away.” 

“You’re just lucky the cut isn’t deeper.”

“Not luck. Skill.” A painful hiss as metal pierced flesh. “Don’t you have something to numb the area?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well. . .?”

“You don’t get it, do you, Sherlock?” John exclaimed angrily, even as he pulled the surgical thread gently taut, his careful actions in direct opposition to his terse demeanor. “I don’t want you comfortable. I want you to remember this, remember how this hurts so you won’t do it again. Maybe that way you won’t ‘delete it from your hard-drive’.” These last words dripped with sarcasm.

“What are you on about?”

“I hate doing this, Sherlock.” John tried to keep all the frustration and anxiety he felt whenever Sherlock was hurt out of his voice. He didn’t succeed. “I hate having to give you stitches. I hate having to constantly patch you up. I hate seeing you put yourself in danger and getting injured. I hate,” John took a deep, steadying breath, the rest of the words calmer, “. . .I hate seeing you in pain.”

“Then you should probably use that numbing agent,” Sherlock commented, dryly.

John exhaled a weary sigh. Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered. Sherlock was Sherlock, and nothing John said would ever change him. And if John was honest with himself, he’d admit he wouldn’t want Sherlock any other way. “Yes, I probably should,” he conceded, placing the needle on the table and reaching into his bag. He had just picked up the tube when Sherlock grasped his wrist.

“I. . .thank you,” Sherlock said, softly, sincerely. “ I do appreciate you. . .this. What you do for me.”

A sad little smile. “I know you do.” And John DID know, even if Sherlock rarely said it. Knew that in his own small way he helped Sherlock, that his friendship and devotion--and yes, his occasional medical assistance--allowed Sherlock the freedom to be the great detective that he was.

“You take good care of me.”

“Well, someone has to,” John said, with a small chuckle.

“I’m glad it’s you.” And something in Sherlock’s voice when he spoke those words, combined with a hint of warmth and affection in those pale slate-grey eyes as he gazed at John, stole the doctor’s breath away.

The moment was in danger of turning into something more, something that had been growing between them for months. Something they both wanted, something they both feared. Sherlock cleared his throat. John glanced away. And the spell was broken. 

“You, um. . .almost done?” Sherlock asked.

“Just a few more,” John answered, spreading some of the numbing agent around the wound. He gave the cream a few moments to take effect, time he spent disinfecting the needle. As he pierced the skin again, he asked, “Better?”

“A bit. Yeah. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

A companionable silence descended upon them while John finished stitching up the gash. As he cleaned around the area and prepared the dressing, Sherlock inquired, “So, what’s the prognosis, doctor?” 

“You’ll live.”

“More than I can say for my shirt.” He looked down at the white silk Savile Row shirt puddled on the floor, the one with the faint silvery pin-stripes and mother-of-pearl buttons--the one now slashed across the waist and splattered with blood--and heaved a deep anguished sigh. “I loved that shirt.”

“The shirt can be replaced, Sherlock,” John said, quietly, as he secured the gauze pad over the fresh stitches, “but you can’t be.”

*Neither can you*, Sherlock thought. What he said was, “I’ll try to be more careful in the future.”

John tenderly brushed his hand over Sherlock’s unruly hair. “That would be nice.” 

“So I’m all set?”

“Unless you want me to kiss it and make it better,” John joked. 

And suddenly the moment was back, and Sherlock, who had always opted for action over deliberation, took a chance. “If you insist. . .” he murmured, wrapping his right hand around the back of John’s neck, and pulling him in for their first kiss.

Lips met gingerly, shyly, nervously. Probing, testing, gauging the other’s reaction. Both knowing what their hearts wanted. Both afraid of rejection. Both wondering if they were making a mistake. 

Both in too deep to turn back.

As they broke apart, Sherlock asked, tentatively, “Okay?” 

John’s answer was to smile. . .and capture Sherlock’s mouth once more.

Tender, sweet kisses quickly escalated in passion and intensity, desire restrained for so long, suddenly unleashed. A desperate, urgent hunger to taste and experience each other to the fullest. Sherlock moaned softly when John licked along the seam of his lips, seeking entry--a request Sherlock couldn’t ignore. The moaning only got louder as John slipped inside, and their tongues touched for the first time.

As the kiss deepened, John slid a knee onto the sofa between Sherlock’s legs and braced his hands on slim bare shoulders, wanting to get closer but careful not to crush himself against Sherlock, ever mindful of damaging the new sutures. Sherlock groaned at the heat of John’s hands upon his skin--the gentle, skillful hands of a doctor--and he shivered at the thought of what those hands could do. He tilted his head against the back cushion, wordlessly begging for more of John’s kisses--kisses more intense, more pleasurable, more addicting than any drug he had ever known. He felt like he was drowning, lost in a sea of sensation, as John’s tongue gently swirled round his, slicking and sliding, intent on canvassing every inch of his mouth.

And Sherlock found he had to revise his earlier deduction--there was absolutely nothing wrong with John Watson’s bedside manner.

It was, in fact, impeccable.

 

5) Having one child who’s a genius is a miracle. Having two children who are geniuses is a nightmare.

Growing up, Mycroft had been a prodigy. Sherlock had been a puzzle. But Sheriford Holmes loved his boys equally. He had such high hopes for both of them, each with so many opportunities and so much potential. Mycroft fulfilled his. Sherlock--not so much. 

Perhaps Sheriford and Clarissa had been too indulgent with their younger son. Sherlock was so special, so inquisitive, so charming. A beautiful child. A bit rambunctious, as most lads are. A delightful, sensitive boy . . .who grew into a surly, disenchanted teenager. An apathetic, cynical college drop-out. A shiftless, aimless drug addict. A drifting, unemployed young man. 

A disappointment.

Sherlock was 22 and already living on the streets of London when Sheriford fell ill. After months of Mycroft’s nagging, Sherlock finally made the trip home to visit. A very awkward visit. Sheriford was angry with Sherlock for throwing his life away. Sherlock was angry with Sheriford for getting sick. In true Holmesian fashion, neither discussed their true feelings. 

The visit lasted 30 uneasy minutes. As Sherlock made to leave, Sheriford told him, “Don’t despair, son. You’ll find your way.” 

For once, Sherlock didn’t have an answer. He left without responding. He wouldn’t speak to his father again for nearly twelve years.

He got regular updates from Mycroft, of course. Unwanted, or at least that’s what he told himself. In those rare moments when he wasn‘t high, or trying to score his next fix, he’d think about his father, think about their final conversation. There were times he’d pick up the phone, his fingers poised to dial a familiar number, but he never made the call. Few people had ever earned Sherlock’s respect--Sheriford Holmes was one of them. He wouldn’t--couldn’t--face his father again until he had figured his life out.

Until he had found his way.

Days turned into weeks, into months, then into years, and still Sherlock floundered, despairing that his father was wrong and that he was indeed a hopeless case. Getting clean didn’t help--it just made the days more boring, more depressing. He still had no direction, no idea what to do with his life or where he fit in the world. He was a misfit. He was a failure.

He was 29 when he stumbled upon his first active crime scene. The officers from Scotland Yard had taped the area off, but he could still see, still observe, as they scurried around collecting evidence. He watched them for a few minutes, muttering under his breath obvious clues they were missing. His comments caught the attention of the lead detective on the case who pulled him aside, and quizzed him for more information. An unlikely alliance was born that day. 

It would be five more years, however, before Sherlock truly found his way.

* * * * * * * * *

During all those years, Sheriford Holmes’ health continued to decline. When the end was near, Sherlock received a phone call from his mother, imploring him to come home and make peace. Just a few months earlier, Sherlock would have rebuffed her. A few months earlier, he was still a failure. But now, with John’s gentle hand clutching his, he found himself assuring her he would get there as soon as possible. 

The grand Holmes’ manor hadn’t changed much in the years Sherlock had been away. Mummy hugged him in the entryway, excited and grateful to have her family together once more, even under such unhappy circumstances. John stayed with her in the parlor while Sherlock made his way down a long hall to his father’s room. He paused a moment outside the door, tamping down his nerves unconsciously straightening his suit jacket before walking in.

Mycroft, who was sitting next to the bed, looked up as Sherlock made his entrance, surprised but delighted that his little brother had kept his promise. He stood up silently, relinquishing his chair. With no one watching, the brothers shared a brief, clumsy hug, then Mycroft slipped out of the room to give Sherlock some time alone with their father.

Sherlock barely recognized the old, frail man lying in the bed, eyes closed, as if dozing. Sheriford had lost weight he couldn’t afford to lose. His thick head of ginger hair was now fine and snow white. His skin, paper-thin, grey and sallow. He had aged much in the intervening years since Sherlock‘s last visit, an observation that made Sherlock’s heart clench. He noticed there were no machines or medical equipment in the room, all of which had been left behind at the convalescent home when Sheriford had requested--demanded--that he be allowed to die in his own house. Sherlock knew his father didn’t have much time left. . .and there was so much left to say. “Father?” 

The old man’s eyes opened, and his face brightened noticeably at the sound of his younger son’s voice. For all that the illness had taken from him, Sheriford still had a vivacious smile, and Sherlock ached at how long it had been since he had last seen it. “Sherlock! My boy! When did you get here?”

“Just. . .just a few moments ago. I had. . .” He hesitated, suddenly apprehensive in this most unfamiliar situation. “I wanted to see you.”

“Then there is a God. Who knew?” He gestured weakly to the chair next to the bed. “Sit down. Talk. It’s been a long time.”

“It has,” Sherlock agreed, taking a seat. “Too long.”

“You made it back. That’s all that’s important.” Sharp pale eyes, so similar to Sherlock’s, scrutinized the young man. “And you’re clean,” he observed. 

“Mycroft would have told you that,” Sherlock pointed out. It only made sense. If he was giving updates to Sherlock about their father, he was surely reporting all of Sherlock’s movements back to the family.

“It’s one thing to hear it,” Sheriford noted, “but it’s another to actually see it.” A lesson Sherlock had learned in his childhood. A lesson he continued to heed.

“Nearly seven years now. . .save the occasional nicotine patch.” A pause. “Es.”

“I knew you could do it,” and was that admiration in his father’s voice? Without realizing it, Sherlock sat up a little straighter. 

He waved his hand in that dismissive, bored way he had perfected over the years. “Well, the whole feckless, disenfranchised youth act was getting dull.” It was more than that, much more, but Sherlock didn’t explain further. Sheriford probably knew about the near-fatal overdose--the one that had finally compelled Sherlock to enter rehab--and if he didn’t, Sherlock felt no need to burden him with it now. It was ancient history, anyway.

“You didn’t come home.” There was no condemnation in Sheriford’s tone, just curiosity. Perhaps a touch of melancholy. 

“I didn’t mean to be away so long.” Sherlock shifted from the chair to sit on the side of the bed and carefully took his father’s delicate hand in his own. “I. . .was trying to find my way.” 

“And have you?” Sheriford asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock replied, slipping back into his usual impatience at other people’s pointless questions. “I’m here.”

“Stop being so contrary, Sparky,” Sheriford chided.

Sherlock grimaced at the long-hated childhood nickname. “I haven’t been ‘Sparky’ since I was eight.”

“Nonsense. You’ll always be ‘Sparky’ to me. Now, tell me about him.”

“Bloody Mycroft,” Sherlock grumbled under his breath. Didn’t he leave ANYTHING for Sherlock to divulge?

“Don’t talk about your brother that way,” Sheriford scolded with a smile. “And besides, it was your mother who mentioned you had found someone.”

“Actually, he found me,” Sherlock corrected. 

“I hope he’s better to you than that dreadful boy you brought home from Cambridge.”

A half-grin quirked at Sherlock’s lips. Sheriford had never approved of any of his boyfriends, but Seb had struck a particularly sour note. “Much better,” Sherlock replied. “Better than I deserve.”

“Nonsense. You deserve the best.”

“And I got it.”

Sheriford laughed at that. “I never thought I’d see the day. My Sparky in love.”

If Sherlock was capable of blushing, his cheeks would have been flame red. “Dad. . .” he groaned, painfully. 

“Come on. Tell me about him.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t read Mycroft’s surveillance folders.”

“He offered, but I’d rather to hear it from you.” 

Sherlock paused for a moment. How could he describe John Watson so his father would understand? No one could ever understand what John meant to him--Sherlock doubted he had the words to explain, even to himself. So instead, he stuck to the basics. “His name is John Watson. He’s a doctor. Ex-military. Wounded in Afghanistan. He’s got one sister, an ex-sister-in-law, has horrible taste in telly and clothes, and can make the most delicious peanut chicken you’ve ever tasted. He brings me tea when I ask, and sometimes when I don‘t. He rarely gets angry when I borrow his computer without asking, and never complains about the messes I leave behind--well, almost never complains. He’s funny and kind and I can hold a half-way intelligent conversation with him. When I see his smile first thing in the morning, I know it‘s going to be a good day, and at times he can surprise me in the most amazing ways. He tolerates my moods, likes my violin playing and against all odds--and laws of logic--he loves me.”

“And how long have you been together?”

“We’ve been flatmates a little over a year now and he hasn’t tossed me out on my arse yet.”

“Well, that’s a first,” Sheriford joked. “He sounds like a good man.”

“The best man I’ve ever known.” Sherlock brought his father’s fragile hand to his lips as he amended, “Second best.”

Sheriford chuckled. “You always could turn on the charm. And this boy makes you happy?”

“He’s hardly a boy, father--and yes, he does.”

“Good. I want you happy.“

“I am.”

Sheriford smiled, contentedly. “Yes, I can see that. Someone you love, a job you enjoy. . .”

Sherlock stiffened at that. His lack of steady employment had always been a sticky matter. While he didn’t make a habit of it, there were times in the past when he had. . . borrowed. . . money from his parents. Money which he had not paid back. They never pressured him to repay them; indeed, once given, it was never mentioned again. 

It had been years since his last. . .loan. He managed to get by with the commissions for his consulting work, but ‘getting by’ was hardly ‘successful’. And when one’s competition was Mycroft Holmes, the shortcomings were even more evident.

“You’ve. . .heard about my work?“ Sherlock asked, curiously, cautiously.

“Well, Mycroft has mentioned it from time to time. . .”

“Of course he has,” Sherlock muttered, his annoyance barely concealed.

“And Clari has read Doctor Watson’s blog to me.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything he writes. He tends to exaggerate.”

“Don’t be modest, Sherlock. Your work with Scotland Yard. The cases you’ve solved. The criminals you’ve caught. I’m proud of you, son. Very proud.” And this time, the admiration in Sheriford’s voice couldn’t be mistaken.

For so long, Sherlock had yearned to hear those words, to be recognized for his achievements, to crawl out from the shadow of Mycroft’s superiority. To prove his worth, to prove his genius to the man whose opinion truly mattered. “Not a failure,” the words soft and uncertain. 

“You were never a failure, Sherlock,” Sheriford assured him. “Just lost. Happens to the best of us from time to time.”

Sherlock could feel tears stinging his eyes; with great effort, he willed them back. “I should have come before. All these years. . .”

“You’re here now,” Sheriford soothed, squeezing Sherlock’s hand. “Worrying about the past won’t change it.”

Yet another lesson Sherlock lived by. Still. . .he couldn’t shake the twinges of regret he was feeling.

“Is there anything I can do for you, now that I’m here?”

“Yes.” Sheriford’s grey eyes danced with mischief. “I want to meet this Watson fellow.“

* * * * * * * * *

Clarissa Holmes was sitting in the parlor, flipping through an old family photo album, when Mycroft happened upon her. He sighed dramatically. “Please tell me you didn’t subject Doctor Watson to those?” 

“He insisted,” she replied merrily, closing the book and placing it on the end table. “Such a charming young man.”

“Yes, he is. It would appear Sherlock finally did something right.”

“Mycroft. . .” his name a mild rebuke.

“Speaking of whom, where IS my dear brother and his. . . paramour?”

Clarissa just shook her head tolerantly. Her boys would never change. “They’re still with your father. Been in there for hours now.”

“Perhaps I should go get them. It’s almost dinner.”

“No,“ she replied, a smile gracing her regal face. “I think I’ve got a better idea. . .”

* * * * * * * * *

Sheriford was in the middle of yet another embarrassingly cute childhood story (to John’s delight and Sherlock’s chagrin) this one involving the Holmes’ brothers and a lost pet bunny, when Clarissa and Mycroft entered the room, trailed by two servants wheeling in trolleys containing the evening meal. “I hope you don’t mind if we crash your party,“ Clarissa joked, as the servants went about setting up a small table with plates and silverware. “We were feeling a bit left out.”

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Sheriford smiled, as Clarissa placed a tray over his lap, brushing a kiss across his cheek. “Evening, love.”

“Dearest,” she replied in kind.

“Do try not to eat all the roast beef before it’s plated, Mycroft,” Sherlock drawled, sardonically. 

“Sherlock!” John, Sheriford, and Clarissa all reprimanded. 

Mycroft just smirked. “Ah, we HAVE missed your presence, baby brother.”

And the game was on.

* * * * * * * * *

Even with the occasional prickly barbs and snipes tossed between the two brothers--or perhaps because of them--dinner was an enjoyable, entertaining affair. After the meal had been cleared away, the family remained, talking and laughing for hours. John contributed to the conversation when coaxed, but mostly, he just watched the Holmes’ family interacting, knowing he was witnessing something precious and rare.

The reunion finally drew to an end when it became obvious how tired Sheriford was. With promises to meet up again in the morning for breakfast, they said their goodbyes and made to leave. Sheriford, however, called out to John. Motioning him close, the old man said, “You love him.”

“Yes, sir. Very much.”

“Will you make an honest man out of him?”

John laughed at that. “I doubt that’s even possible.”

“Well, do your best.”

“I will, sir.”

“You’ll watch out for him.” 

Such a simple statement, but it said so much. John wasn’t a genius detective, but he WAS a damn good doctor. He knew how gravely ill Sheriford was. He heard the words that weren’t spoken. . .*when I’m gone*. 

“He’ll be in good hands,” John assured him. “I promise.”

“I can see that. You’re a good man, John Watson,” Sheriford said, holding out his hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you.” 

“Thank you, sir,” John replied, shaking his hand. “And the pleasure was mine.”

John felt a familiar hand press against his lower back. “You two are talking about me,” Sherlock teased. 

“Of course,” Sheriford teased right back, holding out his arms towards his son. “Now, give me a hug and go get some sleep.” Sherlock eagerly, but careful wrapped his arms around his father and hugged him tight. “I’m glad you found your way, Sparky.”

“I hate that name,” Sherlock grumbled, good-naturedly.

“I know.” Sheriford’s eyes twinkled and his smile was bright. “It was good to see you again.”

“Yes, it was.” Sherlock pressed a kiss to his father’s cheek. “I love you.”

“Love you, too, son.” 

* * * * * * * * *

They were the last words Sheriford Holmes ever spoke.

* * * * * * * * *

At the wake, John stood in the receiving line beside Sherlock, a pillar of strength for the distraught man. At the funeral, John sat next to Sherlock, resplendent in his ceremonial uniform and medals, lending an air of stateliness to the proceedings. At the gravesite, John took his place by Sherlock, ignoring the nods and knowing smiles as he held Sherlock’s hand. 

They stayed on for a few more days, consoling Clarissa and helping her cope with the condolences and well-wishes that poured in for the beloved Holmes patriarch. That left Mycroft time to take care of the legal and administrative demands, which was, after all, what he did best. 

After a week, Sherlock and John left Cambridgeshire and returned to their comfortable flat on Baker Street. Time passed and life continued as before, at least on the surface.

In the hours, days, weeks that followed, Sherlock took on cases, solving them with his usual efficiency and panache. It was as if that time at the Holmes’ estate never happened. But it did. 

People who don’t know Sherlock Holmes believe him to be an unfeeling bastard. John knows how wrong those people are. He knows Sherlock feels. At times, he can feel too much. He understands that the only way Sherlock can function and do his job is to wall those emotions off, ignore them, pretend they don’t exist. Avoidance is Sherlock’s answer to the messiness of life. It usually works. . .until it doesn’t.

And when the night came that those emotions finally rebelled, refusing to be held in check any longer, and the inevitable tears began to fall, John was there--with a dry shoulder and a loving embrace and some tears of his own. 

 

PLUS ONE

+1) Sherlock is on the case. So is John. They have spent hours, days, weeks, tracking the smugglers, working out where and when their next exchange will be. The clues are all there--they just have to piece them together. They’ll see the pattern, eventually. They always do. They just need some time, another night, maybe two. Which is all fine, except that there isn't a crumb left in the flat to eat, and John is starving, and since Sherlock can't be arsed to leave the case alone for a few minutes to go out to dinner, John has volunteered to run over to Angelo’s. 

It's a good plan. It just fails magnificently. 

“This isn‘t the way it was supposed to end,” John mumbles under his breath as the first mugger punches him and pushes him to the ground. The second mugger takes the opportunity to kick him in the ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs. This truly can't be happening! If he was going to die in a back alley in London, it was supposed to be at the hands of a criminal mastermind. . . not a couple of lowlife thugs!

Where the hell is Mycroft’s overenthusiastic security detail when he REALLY needs it!?

Seeing a leg rearing back for another strike, John curls up on his side to protect himself as much as possible from the coming blow--a blow which never comes. A loud gunshot echoes through the alley, followed by the sharp ‘ping’ of a bullet hitting the brick wall behind John. 

“That was a warning," comes a familiar--and much welcomed--honey-smooth voice. “I guarantee the next one won’t miss." The next thing John hears is the panicked, scampering of feet, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

“You know, I don’t think I like your new friends, John,” Sherlock says, approaching his fallen lover. “They play too rough.”

John chuckles, then groans at the pain in his ribs. “Stop it, don’t make me laugh.” Rolling onto his back, he groans again. “You know, I’m getting tired of always being the damsel in distress.”

“At least you weren’t kidnapped this time.”

“Fuck off. How’d you find me?”

“Mycroft texted me.”

“Of course he did.” Instinctively, John looks up, scanning for cameras, but none can be seen. “Wait. How did he. . .?”

“You didn’t make it to Angelo’s within the allotted time.”

“Allotted time. . .?” John asks, painfully pushing himself up into a sitting position.

The familiar eye-roll. “You should have arrived within seven to nine minutes of leaving the flat, taking into account your shorter stride and your annoying tendency to actually wait for crosswalk signals. When he didn’t see you enter the restaurant, he contacted me.”

“Doesn’t he have anything better to do than to spy on us all day long?”

“Apparently not, now that the Oscars have been handed out.”

“You mean ‘The King’s Speech’. . .?”

“Oh, I’m sure Mycroft had nothing to do with THAT one.”

“I. . .I really don’t want to know.” John holds out his hand. “You gonna help me up?”

“Of course, my fair maiden,” Sherlock teases as he pulls John up. Once he's standing, however, Sherlock’s grin morphs into a frown. “You’re hurt.” 

“Well, yes. . .I WAS just jumped by two hooligans,” John says, sarcastically.

“No, you idiot. You’re bleeding.” Pulling a hanky from his coat pocket, he reaches over and gently wipes the smudge of blood from John’s lower lip. “Bastards,” he mutters, menacingly. “Should’ve shot them when I had the chance.” 

John smiles at Sherlock’s overprotective--if a bit possessive--nature. “Just as well you didn’t. Getting rid of the bodies would have been difficult.“

“Not for me,” Sherlock replies a little too seriously for John’s comfort.

“Right. I forgot who I was talking to.”

“Hmm. Maybe this will jog your memory.” And with that, Sherlock bends down and brushes his lips over the spot he just cleaned. 

“Ah yes, I’m starting to remember now. Perhaps another reminder?” John hints, already leaning into Sherlock‘s body. 

“If you think it will help.” Large, graceful hands--faintly smelling of gun-powder--cup John’s face, the kiss long and leisurely and sweet.

As they part, slowly and reluctantly, John quips, “I got kicked in the ribs. Will you kiss that, too?” 

Sherlock’s lips curl into a seductive leer. “When we get home, I’ll kiss all the boo-boo’s better,” he promises, his voice dark and deep and mellifluous.

“What about the case?”

“Case can wait. I’ve determined they won’t make a move until at least Thursday. We’ve got plenty of time.” Another quick kiss. “Come on, let’s go.”

“But dinner. . .I never made it to Angelo’s.”

“We’ll just grab a sandwich at Speedy’s. You can eat it in bed while I take care of you.”

John smiles. “That sounds like a great idea.”

So they did.

And Sherlock did.

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> I am in the process of posting some of my old stories to my AO3 account. This was originally posted to my livejournal in March, 2011. I know Papa Holmes' name is spelled differently than typically in canon. I was going to change it, but this is how I wrote it and I decided in the end to keep the original version.


End file.
